


Like Cats in an Alleyway

by candiedsocks



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Android violence, Gen, Mention of Character Death, Nekkie androids, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Suicidal Thoughts, Three years in a fic, Youth Violence, what is dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:41:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28209993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candiedsocks/pseuds/candiedsocks
Summary: Hank thinks about cats.
Relationships: Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900, Hank Anderson & Connor, Hank Anderson & Gavin Reed, Hank Anderson & Upgraded Connor | RK900, Upgraded Connor | RK900 & Gavin Reed
Kudos: 21





	Like Cats in an Alleyway

Hank decides that they’re cats. Every last one of them. He comes to this conclusion on March 8th, watching the Connors interact. Or Connor and Nines, or whatever. (Nines is new. Hank does not do new well, but he’s trying.)

Connor starts toward his desk, Hank even turns in anticipation for the kid to park it on the end of the L, as he has a tendency to do. But the larger RK android steps into Connor’s path. Connor and Nines stare at each other while Hank stares at them. Hank feels the muscles in his face constrict as he squints in confusion, maybe in concern. (Something about androids that look like Connor but are decidingly not Connor will always be a nag in the back of his mind because of one night in a storage basement at the former Cyberlife headquarters. Nines is not so bad though.)

After a moment of staring, Connor’s smile widens and he reaches out, the skin retracting on his hand as Nines reaches for it. Nines has his back turned and Hank just assumes it’s the same kind of grumpy and bored expression he always has. Their hands drop away and Connor steps around him, eyes locking on Hank’s and soon he occupies the edge of the desk, sitting too casually on an inappropriate surface for a workplace but Hank won’t tell him no.

Cats. Connor talks about a case they’re working on and Hank muses to himself. Reflects on cats and how they learn to speak for the benefit of humans. Cats in the wild only vocalize in extreme situations, or something like that? Hank’s not too sure, but androids in the human-run workplace move fluidly around one another, interacting with their touches and invisible gestures and data transmissions that, if they were visible to the human eye, would probably fog the whole place up in how many of them went unnoticed by the human population. Connor is talking about a potential upgrade to his internal real-time forensics lab that will surely help their current case and Hank wonders if he were more technologically inclined, if Connor would forgo talking to him too. Emails in place of conversations like this. Hank grunts in response so the kid thinks he’s listening. And Connor is undeterred. He even moves his hands a little, gesturing as he talks. Hank again wonders how much of this is for his benefit. To put Hank at ease. Deviants don’t really need to worry about that now so much because humans no longer determine their right to exist. Mostly, beyond any minority having to mind their right to exist in a world rife with inequality. Something about nearing that edge of applying cultural competency training, and Hank groans and rolls his eyes up, and Connor frowns.

The thought does not occur to him again until they emerge onto the fourth floor balcony of the Fisher building. Carl Manfred is hosting some kiddo art club and Markus is there as his proxy. Carl is dying, no nice way to put it, and this is his legacy. Which means it’s Markus’s legacy too. So the android messiah is there. And Connor, as his guest. And Hank, because Connor asked him to come and Hank was doing piss all that evening. (Drinking himself to sleep/death is less of an option now than it was before. Most of the time.) Markus and Connor are speaking in the open space of the party. Hank recalls something from a show he used to watch about cats liking vertical spaces versus ones that hid low. Happy cats had high places to hide, so said the man with the absurd name that had a show all about the topic. Markus is right against the edge, and Connor is avoiding getting too close. He watchs him startle, nearing too close and glancing down. Kid was afraid of heights. Markus was very nearly up on the ledge and walking on it, all grace and presence. Markus was the tree cat in the metaphor. Connor was the cat with anxiety and issues that no longer liked heights. Hank shoved his hands into his pockets and started toward the two of them. (The short-sleeved collared shirt he wore was fitting better too, looser, probably thanks to lessening the alcoholic consumption.) He stopped a distance away, calling for Connor. Give the kid an out. Markus would probably only understand textbook PTSD, but would miss the subtleties of the real life application. Connor approached, hands tucked into his armpits despite the lack of a chill. Behind him, Markus turned back to the other three revolution leaders. Connor smiled in the way that looked uncomfortable and Hank jerked his own head back, giving a thin excuse about the summer heat driving the both of them back inside. 

The next time it comes up, his weight is against Connor as they rush down the concrete steps of a fire escape. Hank very nearly takes them both down when he misses a step. Or he thinks he does but Connor is a sure support against him and compensates for the shift in balance. Hank’s side hurts, he’s breathing heavy, and he’s dizzy. All of those may be part of the same issue of being grossly out of shape. Also getting shot makes your body do some weird things. Hank has to sit down because he can’t breath and his vision is getting a little swimmy. Double, or something. It zooms in and out as Connor deposits him roughly in a spot that will provide cover. And then takes his gun. Hank lets him. Connor is doing his thing with constructing the next seconds, like a soothsayer divining their futures. Hank’s arm is bleeding from a bullet and his side is covered in thirium. Six of the bullets are in Connor. Who is standing at the ready. 

Connor’s left arm is hanging at an unnatural angle, fingertips blue with his own blood. And Hank thinks that it’s such a contrast. Hank is bleeding, sure. From a non-lethal wound to his arm with a .22 that will scar and that’s it, but Connor is over there with what is probably severe damage and is all business. Hank, in his near-shock, thinks about his aunt's cat that had three legs and would catch birds in midair. Connor is not a three-legged cat, but if he’s hurting, if he’s scared, he doesn’t show it. There is murder in his eyes as he glances back and likely scans Hank. Murder to be unleashed in measured application should the man upstairs choose to come down to pursue them. Hank cannot put up a fight and flips Connor off for his scanning efforts. And then only when Connor is certain that it’s safe does he return to Hank, reholsters his gun for him, and lift him back up to his feet to stumble with him to safety. 

Seven hours later and Hank sits slumped in a more-aesthetic-than-functional chair at the reclaimed Cyberlife headquarters. His brain is a little fuzzy still, and his arm hurts to hell. The sling helps. He watches the sunset paint the Michigan sky with warmer hues and tries not to look down at the blue stains on his shirt. Across from him, in a room he is not allowed to enter, Connor is motionless where he hangs. There is something uniquely terrifying and beautiful about androids anyways, but without their skin they look vulnerable. Like the military grade plastic will crunch under a firm grip. This is the first time he has seen Connor without his skin and he looks close to fragile as he dangles suspended by wires and framing. Hank shakes his head and hangs it. Nines steps up to his side, and Hank sees him approach before he arrives. Hears him before he reaches his side. And just feels the prickles of being scanned. Again. He looked over. And Nines stares at him with no small level of an antagonistic air. Daring him to challenge him. Daring him to say something contrary to Connor’s request that Hank’s state is ascertained and if there is concern to send him home. Hank sucks on his teeth, spreads his knees, and leans back in the uncomfortable but lovely chair and crosses his arm. He’s not leaving. Just like Nines is not leaving. Nines turns and sits abruptly, his hands awkwardly balled at his knees, and he stares forward. 

There is an empty chair between them. Hank watches him, and considers the proximity, considers the silent camaraderie as they wait and watch the technician extract the fifth bullet from Connor. Hank shrugs it off and accepts Nines sitting near him at face value. Nines lacks all the warmth that the other androids Hank is familiar with try to show. He makes no attempts to sway others to his side and largely endures the fleshy walking meat-sacks. He is cold but not unkind, Hank thinks. He tries not to conjure up the image of a cat. It’s the pain medication, maybe. But the thought of Nines as a prissy and fluffy animal has Hank snort to himself. There is no request for context, and Hank does not bother providing any. They wait together in silence. He’s fairly certain by that point that he has some kind of profound insight into androids.

Turns out prototype parts are hard to replace with the company that made them is in litigation for white-collar crimes against humanity at large. The non-activated RK800 units are in storage and are treated as donors. Which means no consent, no donation. Which means Connor has no arm. Or he has an arm, but it hangs in a sling. Fowler has it in his mind that it means Connor is somehow less capable than normal, when the kid only needs one movable finger to stick stuff in his mouth, and access to the network. Hank is fine with this, as it means both of them are forced to take it easy. Hank and Connor are both on light-duty. Which also means Nines is, as they have not quite crossed the bridge of android partners with the other detectives. Only been a year after all.

Nines is perched on Connor’s side. He’s taller, so it’s not nearly as awkward for him to be sitting at the edge. Connor is rolling his quarter over the knuckles of one hand, eyes half shut as he is not fully there, off in the network somewhere or something. Hank is not thinking about comparisons until in his peripheral he watches Nines reach down and catch the quarter. Nines has the start of a smirk that looks so far from Connor’s that it is the first time Hank knows the RK tank unit is a deviant. The gesture is slight and slow. Purposeful. Knocking-a-cup-off-the-edge purposeful. And Hank feels his own mouth twitch. Connor looks up with indignance, his face showing just how he felt about Nines and his audacity. Nines begins to emulate Connor’s movements, rolling the quarter with less effort than a human might. Not quite as fast as his predecessor. Connor seems to approve, and sits back. He returns to staring at the screen, adjusting before his eyes are rapidly twitching as he does whatever in the computer. Or maybe network. Hank watches as Nines glances off with a wistful boredom after setting the quarter down on the desktop. 

A couple of months later, Connor has an arm because Markus pulled some strings. And Hank can move his arm again with minimal discomfort. Someone thinks it is a very funny joke to pair Reed and Nines up. Hank can understand where Reed is coming from; he may not agree with it anymore but if anyone told him five years ago that androids would have rights and thoughts and maybe souls, he would have considered pink sheeting them. He can understand. Sympathize. It does not mean he appreciates the comments Reed makes. Hank remembers his mid-thirties and the climate of what happens when hate goes unreproached. Maybe it’s because he has a soft spot for Nines too that he lays down not-so-subtle threats. Reed is a piece of shit, but also not the absolute worse. And begrudgingly has begun to accept the new status of sentient androids. He gets worse before he gets better.

They are on a roof. On a stake out. Gavin has been on a kick lately because he was half-way decent to Nines and has to prove that he hates androids even more now. Connor is doing his android-anxiety-hands-in-armpits walk away from the edge and Gaven shoulder checks him. Not near the edge. Not even close enough to be a risk. But Hank sees the LED go red. He is climbing to his feet to intervene when Nines is rushing past. Nines is probably going to murder Reed because what have humans really done for him and Reed might deserve it on some level, but Connor is fast and moves inbetween them. He takes the blow that is meant for Gavin and deflects it down, catching the next attempt too.

Hank saw a special on big cats a few weeks ago. Two brother tigers going at it for territory. He thought about how far the camera guy had to be to catch the footage. He wonders if the camera guy had felt icy fear or a sense of awe. Nines is pissed and over it. Connor has a tangible sense of why killing humans is wrong. Four attempts are made to get at Reed. Neither android strikes the other; Connor deflects and blocks, and Nines sways and strikes, and ultimately they both stop within a minute. The stillness is maybe worse than the short burst of violence. Connor’s LED is red, Nines is yellow-red-yellow-red. And then they both take a step back. Nines turns to walk back to where he was sitting before. Reed sweats and cools off at the far west corner of the roof. And just like that, no one speaks of it again.

The stakeout was a bust and Hank and Reed go to wait by the car afterward. Hank is not feeling fatherly and does not want to be viewed as such. But he’s seen shit, and he’s seen the shitter that a life can get flushed down. So he talks to Reed. And Reed talks back. It’s all very strange, the bonding on Grand Blvd in the light falling snow. The two androids approach and Hank gets into the car, not knowing if it will make a difference as Reed walks off, slumped and hands in pockets, to his own vehicle parked a short distance away.

The next time Hank makes a comparison, it comes a morning after. Last night, he was sitting on the floor of his kitchen in his own piss, having flown far past drunk and straight into alcohol poisoning, gripping onto Connor and sobbing. Depression hit like a knife to the gut on the anniversary of Cole’s death and Connor was suddenly in his space. He didn’t know when the kid got there, because he had been drinking for hours. So in bed the next morning, his brain throbbing and trying to push out through his eyeballs, he watched Connor’s LED. Curtains drawn, he watched it go round and round and round. The kid was seated beside Hank on the bed, against the headboard, ankles crossed where they spread out. Just sitting there like he belonged, on the pillows no less. Connor’s eyes were shut, likely in some kind of standby or something. At a distance. Hank vaguely remembered pleading with Connor last night to let him die. To leave so he could do it. Not really certain what it was, Hank winced at the hazy memory none-the-less. Did Connor break into his house? Did he let him in? Sumo was barking, so maybe he did break in. But here he was, occupying space comfortably and without expectation. Connor’s foot began to bounce, and his eyes blinked twice before he regarded Hank with a patient expression. No judgement. No demands. Just quiet concern. At least Connor took his damn shoes off before sitting in the bed. Hank shared as much, no bite in the statement, and went back to sleep. (Hank actually does something the next day for himself, because the problem is bigger than him now. Connor does not leave his side for several days though, even after Hank goes to his first AA meeting and signs up to do an intake with a therapist.)

Hank does not think about cats for a few months. He works on himself. Surprisingly, Reed does as well. It makes their working life so much better. Reed is still a piece of shit. He’ll die a piece of shit. But he is more a hard turd than a loose, messy stool. Actually, Hank thinks the kid is not so bad. Just arrogant. Nines is good for him in that they are both angry and bond over being angry at pretty much everything. Connor and Nines continue their telepathic conversations. (Hank thinks it’s fucking hilarious when Reed still manages to get feisty about it. Maybe some kind of childhood trauma that he has to work out? Being left out of things. Hank imagines his therapist saying so, at least.)

It is a day in April 2041 when they get a weird call. All the calls they get are weird. This one involves a body in the newly founded Jericho center. The details are scarce but Jericho sends what they have over. Nines and Connor are oddly silent on the way there. The location is an auditorium sized room in the new center. Several androids are still there, standing in the dark around the perimeter. LEDs light up in reds and yellows, and Nines and Connor are allowed to approach. Gavin and Hank stand back, observers only as they are barely trusted. (Hank minds a little less in these situations, as Nines and Connor are both allowed to carry firearms now. He does not have to pull the kid behind him anymore.)

The scene is still unnerving. Hank crosses his arms, his hands finding their way into his armpits. He glares at the white leg he can see just barely where Nines is looming. Child android, by the size of it. Rather than draw lines to memories, Hank thinks about alley cats and how there’s always a few watching you. The androids in the distance of the space watch them. It is more unnerving. Hank gets more uncomfortable when he catches sight of the leg again. So he makes conversation, he tells Gavin that, back in his day, you could go on a hike in the southwest, and be seen by no less than seven cougars. Reed does not know why Hank is saying what he’s saying, but then a look of understanding crosses his face and damnit if Hank does not catch on and realize too late. (Also, maybe Reed is less of a piece of shit than Hank thought.) Because Gavin nods, and remarks that that’s a lot of cougars. No insult or biting comment following. (He does not drink that night because when they get back, Gavin and Hank both catch the hollow eyed stare on their partners. They walk at a park instead, and Nines gets to pet a dog because a little old gal thinks he’s so handsome.)

There’s a whole thing after that, because of course with sentience comes struggles outside of their human dealings. Markus has to get involved because the child android was murdered. With intent. And also not. Seems more than a little screwed up for Hank’s fuckery meter, but also not the worse thing he has ever seen a sentient being do to another. He has to remember that Connor is three years old, and the little girl he meets that looks exactly like the deceased is technically five and it adds context as Nines and Connor have to apprehend her and take her in for killing her twin? Sibling? The child android was downloaded into the other child android so they never had to be apart, and resulted in both victim and accused in the same pint-sized body. Hank calls his sponsor rather than imbibe and tells her about cats blinking at each other to communicate because he cannot tell him about the two little girls who looked exactly alike and how one killed the other. He thinks about Nines and Connor standing together in their comfortable silence, mourning the fucked-up-ness of babies killing babies. He imagines that they blink at each other not just for the humans benefits but because it signifies comfort.

Sumo is his best boy, and he loves that dog. But the week that Connor comes by with a cat, he begrudgingly opens his home to another stray. Connor is by more, and he doesn’t mind the kid there. Hank does not like cats. He’s fascinated by them in so far as they are tiny creatures with big brains and bigger attitudes. And so much hate. They are prissy, and only want affection on their terms. Hank sits in his underwear, feeling as though he should be comfortable in his own home. Connor is in standby beside the fridge, a blanket draped over his shoulders to add a little more warmth. His arms are folded as he receives the upgrades to his systems, and the cat sits and watches Hank. It’s purrs are audible in the otherwise quiet house. Hank leans on his hand, and meets the cats eyes. He blinks slowly, thinking about a man with an odd name telling him to blink at cats to show affection. It’s not love so much as a willingness to be vulnerable. An acceptance into his space. He looks up at Connor, and does the same.


End file.
